


(In)Convenience Store

by EachPeachPearPlum



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Convenience Store, Corporate Espionage, Debt, Gun Violence, Happy Ending, M/M, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 05:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1456789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EachPeachPearPlum/pseuds/EachPeachPearPlum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur knew his father's decision to have him head up the New York division of Pendragon Pharmaceuticals wasn't a good one, but it's not until he finds himself in a convenience store being held up at gunpoint that he realises quite how bad it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [texasislandr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/texasislandr/gifts).



> For [texasislandr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/texasislandr/pseuds/texasislandr), who has not only drawn some fabulous [art](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1452061) for the prompt but has also been supportive, friendly, and generally wonderful the whole time I've been writing this. I hope it lives up to your expectations.
> 
> All my love and gratitude to [daroh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/daroh/pseuds/daroh) and [detochkina](archiveofourown.org/users/Detochkina/pseuds/Detochkina) for the beta, and for going through and unpicking all my many British-isms. Sorry I made it such hard work for you guys.
> 
> And, finally, this is just part one. Part two will be here soon, hopefully, but the posting deadline was yesterday and it's not ready yet...

"What is this?" Uther asks, not cold but cool, dismissive, like she doesn't even merit the breath he puts behind the words. "This is worthless, Nimueh."

She looks at him, then back down to the papers he's scattered carelessly across the desk, her best work, the most important thing she's ever achieved. "I wouldn't expect you to understand," she says, and she has no idea how he does it, how he manages to sound disinterested when all she can ever seem to be is furious.

"I understand perfectly. You may have been friends with my wife, but that doesn't mean I am willing to accept things like this."

"This is…" she starts, trailing off because she doesn't have the words to talk about it, to express just how essential what she has given him is. "This is _lives_ ," she manages eventually. "This could _make_ Pendragon Pharmaceuticals."

"This will be made meaningless as soon as Balinor Emrys' next paper is published," he says, still utterly dispassionate, sliding an advance issue of one of the many medical journals he subscribes to across the desk. "Bring me something useful, and then we'll talk about a job."

"But-"

"That will be all, Nimueh."

She stands, hating him, hating the promise she made to Ygraine in her last days, the promise to keep an eye on her son, keep him safe, not leave him alone with his philandering bastard of a father, without another source of morality and guidance. The promise that means she needs to get a job here.

"Thank you," she says, though it galls her to do so, sliding her chair back under the desk. "I'll be back."

X

It is a terrible feeling, being forced to stand and watch as a stranger boxes up and takes away your possessions, the things that make up your home and your life. It isterrible, and even worse to know that it is your fault.

"It's okay," Hunith said, the first time he came home and told his wife about the paperwork his intern had misplaced, the facts and figures and formulas he needed to file with the backers to prove the worth of their investment. "They'll turn up," she said, and Balinor let himself believe her. "These things always do."

He let himself believe, and he searched, dragged his new intern into helping him, keeping her in the lab until almost midnight three days in a row as they tore the place apart and put it back together again; by the time he gave up, the deadline his backers had set for receiving the paperwork was less than a week away, barely enough time for him to recreate the evidence of the experiment and tidy it up, if everything went well.

Only, it didn't.

His electron microscope broke barely hours in, the cells in the slides corrupted, and then, when he finally seemed to have got the basics down again, the virus protection on the computer he used for the analysis gave up. The replacement he bought with his and Hunith's last scraps of money screwed him over too, and when he went to his financiers in a last-ditch attempt to save the project and his family, they asked for evidence that their investment was worth something.

Only, that wasn't something he couldn't give, and they aren't the sort of people who would forgive that.

The house isn't enough to cover what he owes, they say, and the few possessions of value that he and Hunith have don't help much.

"It's okay," Hunith says, sliding her hand into his, the other holding tightly to Merlin, keeping him beside them in an attempt to stop him assaulting the removal men.

"How?" Balinor asks, and even if he wants to pull away, even if he knows his stupidity means he doesn't merit the comfort, he can't make himself resist it. "We've got nothing left! How is it okay?"

"We've got somewhere to go," she says. "We've got Merlin and each other, the baby in a few months. We've got the things that matter." Her hand tightens on his, holding him down, grounded and safe. "Everything else is just _stuff_. We can rebuild that."

"I love you," Balinor tells her, the only words he can think of that possibly come close to expressing his gratitude.

Beside his wife, their son pouts, clinging desperately to the stuffed dragon in his hands, ratty and old, the only thing valueless enough for them to be allowed to keep.

X

"You're late," Sophia pouts, leaning her elbows on the counter, a nail file in one hand.

"So report me," Merlin tells her, not pausing on his way to stow his backpack in the storeroom at the back of the shop. He digs his uniform shirt out of his bag, pulling it on over his long-sleeved t-shirt, then heads back into the shop.

Sophia looks even more pissed when he flips up the counter to join her on the other side of it. " _God_ ," she says, grabbing her purse from the shelf under the cash register. "Wouldn't it be great if we could all work for a family friend and be allowed to show up whenever we wanted."

" _God,_ " Merlin mimics. "Wouldn't it be great if we could all have access to Daddy's sports car so that when class runs late and we miss our bus, we don't have to sprint to get to work."

Sophia glares at him, and it takes actual effort for Merlin to hold back all the other things he wants to say to her, mostly because the nail file in her hand is glass and probably sharp enough to function as a murder weapon if he pisses her off enough. “Whatever,” she huffs, tucking her purse under her arm before flouncing off without a goodbye.

“Bitch,” Merlin mutters to her back, then dumps his textbook on the counter and settles in for a long night of doing very little.

X

Arthur knows better than to ignore an email from his father, particularly one marked as being of high importance; it's true that his father's idea of _highly important_ is not necessarily the same as his own, or that of anyone else, really, but that still doesn't entitleone to ignore him.

Thus, when the email arrives in Arthur's inbox at 8:03 on Monday morning - 27 minutes before his official starting time, not that Uther Pendragon has ever been bothered with such petty concerns - he opens it immediately, if only because he hopes that if the day starts off unhappily, the only way to go is up.

The message he reads is brutally succinct, and unpleasant enough Arthur feels obliged to let loose a string of curses that would make his sister proud (he learnt them all from her, because - Morgana says - what else are big sisters for), even if it is now only 8:05.

Whatever he may have thought two minutes ago, Arthur is suddenly very sure that the moment when some inconsiderate git drove through the puddle outside the main entrance of Pendragon Pharmaceuticals and soaked him was probably the highlight of his day.

X

On the dot of eight thirty - Uther may arrive in the office at the arse-crack of dawn, but god forbid anyone interrupt him before his first coffee at work - Arthur is waiting outside his father's office, trying not to gnash his teeth; his dentist has told him, more than once, how much damage grinding his teeth isdoing.

"Come in, Arthur," Uther calls, before Arthur knocks on the door.

"Thank you, sir," Arthur answers, closing the door behind him; Uther may permit _Father_ at home, very occasionally _Dad_ , but at work he is always _sir_ , even if it's his children - child, ever since Morgana left the company and their father's life - he's talking to.

Before entering the office, Arthur had been certain of what he was going to say, and he'd been largely sure it was going to be the kind of expletives he wouldn't dream of saying to his father under any other circumstances. Now, when he has both the opportunity and the occasion to say it, is apparently no different, since all Arthur can do is stand before his father's desk, borderline looming.

"Really, Arthur," Uther says, sounding as bland as he ever does (bland or furious; his father's two main settings). "I am a rather busy man, and I do not have time for your antics."

_Antics,_ Arthur thinks, trying not to lose his temper with his father just yet; expecting to speak with his father/managing director (and if Arthur had been as smart as he liked to think he was, he’d have gone to work for a company run by someone who has never had to ground him for missing curfew or fighting with his half-sister) about the distressing email he received this morning hardly counts as an _antic._ "Sir," he starts, then figures this is probably an appropriate time to remind his father of their shared genetics. "Father. Do you really think this is the best course of action for the company?"

"You are sorely lacking in practical management experience, Arthur," Uther argues, although Arthur hadn't actually realised it was an argument. "This is an excellent opportunity for you to change that."

"But-"

"Really, Arthur," his father says a second time, changing bland for borderline exasperated (perhaps considering his father a man of two settings was a little short sighted of him). "There is a vacancy open, and you should consider it a privilege that I wish you to fill it. Many people in your position would kill for the chance I'm offering you."

_Then offer it to them,_ Arthur thinks, but - in a moment of unparalleled wisdom, he thinks - decides against saying it. He decides against saying anything, actually, because any words he does manage will only fall on deaf ears; even the most rational argument will have little impact on his father when his mind is made up, and silence requires far less effort.

"I think you're making a mistake," Arthur says eventually, in his father's apparent absence of words.

"I understand that," Uther answers, but Arthur is far too intelligent to think that that means his father is giving in. "I have purchased a flat for you, just down the road from the New York office. Your flight leaves early on Friday morning; I thought you might like the weekend to settle in and adjust to the time difference before starting work."

That, Arthur knows, is both a dismissal and the closest thing his father can get to compassion.

X

“I mean,” Arthur says, talking more to Gwen and Lance, since his ranting is only getting him eyerolls from Morgana. “Can you actually believe him? He’s given me less than a week to pack up my whole life and move halfway across the world, and he’s acting like I’m a spoilt brat by not wanting to go!”

Morgana scoffs, but then Arthur is fairly sure that's her automatic reaction to him opening his mouth, the cow. Gwen, on the other hand, manages to be sympathetic for all of a few seconds.

"It does seem rather sudden," she says, sounding dubious, then follows it up with what is probably Arthur's least favourite word ever. "But-"

"No!" Arthur snaps, probably less gently than Gwen deserves, but after his father's complete failure to listen to reason over the course of the day, his patience is running fairly thin. "There are no _buts_."

"Fine," she says, then smirks in a distressingly Morgana-ish way. "America!"

"America," Arthur argues, with considerable more disdain than Gwen, not to mention way, _way_ less enthusiasm.

"New York!"

"Traffic jams."

"Broadway," she says, so much enthusiasm to it, like she's hoping her excitement will be contagious. "The shows."

"The shopping," Morgana chimes in, then glares at Lancelot.

"The museums," Lance says, visibly reluctant to join in, but that isn't enough to stop Arthur.

"Traitor!" he snaps. "All of you. You're all on his side."

Morgana downs her drink, then uses the stupid paper umbrella to impale an olive from the bowl in the middle of their table, her manner deeply threatening. "Never," she says, pausing to catch the olive in her teeth before offering Arthur what is less a smile and more a savage baring of teeth, then continuing, "accuse me of being on Uther's side."

Gwen makes a hurried attempt to look busy, folding her napkin in half, then again, and a third time, her eyes on her hands, while Lancelot looks halfway tempted to spill his pint on himself just so he has a reason to leave the table. Hell, Arthur considers it himself, but Morgana would probably only follow him into the men's loo in order to make sure her point was made.

"Sorry," he says, since he knows very well when he's beaten. "I didn't mean it like that, 'Gana."

"I know," she answers, which almost counts as a concession coming from her; his sister, always fierce, has only become more so since the appearance of her not-half-sister made his father come clean about Morgana's parentage. "You can't deny that it's a hell of an opportunity, though. Not just the job, but the move; you can be whoever and whatever you want, without your father looming over everything."

_Our father_ , Arthur thinks, even if he's not moronic enough to say it. "Riiiiight," he agrees, dubious.

"I'm not saying to look forward to it, bro," she says, like that's meant to be comforting. "Just that it might turn out better than you think."

She smiles her _I'm so mysterious_ smile, the bitch, and Arthur knows that if his sister and his father are united in this, there's fuck all chance of him getting out of it.

"Bollocks," he says, drinking down the dregs of his pint. "I'm going to New York, aren't I?"

"Chin up," Gwen says, although unlike his sister she at least has the good manners to try keep her smile hidden. "We'll buy you another drink before you go."

X

The New York traffic is just as bad as TV always makes it out to be, though since Arthur's new flat - _apartment,_ corrected Vivian, his new secretary, when she met him at the airport and took him to the fully furnished place that he is apparently supposed to be calling home - is within walking distance of both his office and an all-night pizza place, it hardly matters. His car is at home, too, left in Gwen's capable hands along with strict instructions against letting Morgana anywhere near it, so even if the road traffic was moving at something faster than walking speed, Arthur wouldn't be driving.

And, as Morgana told him when he mused briefly on the logistics of getting his car all the way over there, _no one drives in New York, Arthur_ , which may or may not have had something to do with his making Gwen promise not to let her touch it.

As it happens, though, the absence of a car makes food shopping a tad tricky; Arthur knows some of the guys in his halls of residence back when he was a student used to walk to the closest supermarket and share a taxi back with all their shopping. He finds the idea distinctly unappealing, though, particularly since his neighbourhood is decidedly lacking in anything even vaguely resembling the Waitrose he shops in at home and, whatever Vivian said about the Avalon _convenience store_ fifty metres down the road from his building, Arthur doesn't want to be going there.

If only he hadn't told his housekeeper she could have the weekend off.

X

Quite honestly, Merlin has had a shit day. His head is pounding so hard it beggars belief, he's fairly sure he flunked the exam he had this afternoon, and all he really wanted to do after school  was go home and hide until the world started looking a whole lot less bleak.

Sadly, he's one skipped shift away from not making rent this month, and after the knockdown drag-out he had with his dad about moving out to go to school, he's damn well not going to go crawling back there asking them to put a roof over his head again, not when money is already so tight back home.

_At least there's Gwaine in tonight_ , he tells himself, shifting his backpack from one shoulder to the other and pushing himself from a quick walk to a run (because he's late again, thanks to the fucking unreliabity of New York's mass transit). Gwaine, unlike some people he could mention, is actually capable of treating Merlin like a human being, and has also been known to stick around a while after his shift ends, keeping Merlin company. He's a good guy, which is why Merlin tries not to bitch too much about the fact that Gwaine flirts with everyone and their mother, no regard for whether a person is taken or even whether their other half is in the room with them (and the fact that Merlin's dad nearly decked him the one and only time Gwaine met Merlin's parents hasn't changed a thing).

He's a good guy, and if Merlin asks, Gwaine will hang around after his shift ends and listen to Merlin whine.

X

Somehow – and Merlin isn't sure of the progression of events, never is where Gwaine is concerned – whining turns into a war with the pricing guns as weapons, and Merlin isn’t anywhere close to winning.

X

_Right_ , Arthur tells himself. He needs bread, milk, and whatever passes for tea in this stupid country. Five minutes down to Avalon, maybe two minutes to find the things he's after, and another five back. Fifteen minutes at most, and then he can spend the rest of the weekend safely in his flat, eating toast and jam and not seeing anyone he doesn't want to; if that means not seeing anyone at all, so be it.

Fifteen minutes, that's it.

He takes the stairs out of the building – Arthur has never been fond of lifts, and since he pretty much has to take one on a daily basis to get to his thirty-third floor office, he'd rather walk when he has the chance – then makes his way down the almost empty street to the store, pushing the door open with a tad more force than necessary.

The bell chimes annoyingly, although not quite as much as the yelp that follows it.

" _Ow_!" says the guy standing in front of him, holding a hand to his nose, and glaring balefully at Arthur. "Would it kill you to look where you're going?"

Arthur steps back, almost turns and leaves then and there, but hasn't had a decent cup of tea since he got here and there has to be something better than the shit they have in his office. "Well," he says, taking two steps forwards to compensate for the one he just retreated. "Doors do open, sometimes; if you stand in front of them, you're only going to get what you deserve."

The man, probably a few years younger than Arthur, offers him a startled blink, then falls back. "Of course," he says, finally lowering his hand so that Arthur can see his sarcastic smile. "By all means, come on in. Is there anything I can help you find, or do you just want a handful more strangers to bruise?"

"Milk," Arthur answers, deciding to take his response at face value. "Bread, and if you've got any brand of tea that's actually drinkable, I'll have that, too."

Shop-guy, who Arthur is only just noticing has a price sticker stuck to his right cheek, not to mention a number in his hair and a hell of a lot across his blue uniform shirt, doesn't say anything, just points wordlessly at the back of the store. Arthur finds the fridges there, then paces the few aisles until he works out where the bread is hidden. There's no sign of anything even vaguely resembling the sort of tea he drinks at home, and Arthur isn't particularly inclined to give the nametag-less bloke working here anymore of his money than the milk and bread will cost; he gives up, heading to the front of the store just as the bell above the door chimes again and a guy in a similar blue shirt, possibly the cause of the stickers all over Arthur’s accidental victim, walks out.

It's none of Arthur's business what the two of them get up to on their shift, though; he’s not their employer, and even if he was he probably wouldn’t give a shit at this time of night, as long as they’re not dumb enough to be stealing from the till.

The nameless (and now stickerless) shop employee looks a little less offended by the time Arthur gets to the counter and places his purchases before him. In fact, he’s grinning, with such blinding intensity that Arthur finds it hard not to respond in kind. He doesn’t, because smiling like an idiot at a complete stranger is something he’s never done in the past and has no intention of starting to do now, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t take effort.

“Sorry, man,” he says, so sincere it’s probably contributing to New York’s air pollution somehow. “You caught me off-guard, might have overreacted a bit.”

_Mate?_ Arthur thinks, and since even his thoughts sound disdainful it’s probably a good thing he doesn’t say it. “Just these,” he says, then tacks on a reluctant, “please.”

If anything, No-Name’s grin gets even bigger, and he’s not conventionally good-looking, maybe, but there’s definitely something to the smile and the cheekbones and even the ears, for God’s sake. “Not a problem,” he tells Arthur, turning the bread until a sticker a lot like those that coated him a few minutes ago is visible. “You’re English, yeah?” he continues, and Arthur has never understood the strange obsession some cashiers have with making conversation, but it’s most definitely the reason he chooses to use the self-service machines whenever the supermarket he’s in has them. “Been in town long?”

“A week,” Arthur says, then, somewhat mystified by the fact that he’s actually answered the question, feels compelled to add, “not that it’s any of your business, but I live here.”

No-Name nods like Arthur has said something particularly wise rather than just unnecessarily hostile, holding his gaze in a way that on a more muscular bloke would be intimidating rather than intimate. “What brings you here, Business or pleasure?”

Arthur smothers a laugh - if there’s one tiny, _tiny_ , good thing about his father shipping him over here, it’s that he’s no longer being nagged at to bring a girl around for dinner some evening - and takes a second to calm his expression before answering. “Work,” he says, not quite sure why he’s sharing this but at least managing to prevent himself from coming out to a complete stranger; only three people know that so far and he’s not having some guy working at a corner shop in the middle of the night be the fourth, no matter how sharp his cheekbones are.

“How much do I owe you?” he asks, hoping to remind both of them why he’s here.

“Call it six,” No-Name answers, and Arthur fights the urge to ask if that’s how much it actually is, if only because he’d probably deserve whatever obnoxious response that got him.

He digs the right amount out of his wallet, plonks it on the counter before him and scoops up his purchases, forcing himself not to answer when No-Name smiles again and says, “see you around, blondie.”

It doesn’t matter, anyway. He’s just some guy who works in a shop, and Arthur isn’t going to see him again.

X

“Back again?” Merlin asks, when the door chime rings at precisely six minutes after eleven for the third night in the row. He doesn’t need to look up to know that it’s the blond guy, the one who first appeared on Friday and has appeared at the same time every weeknight since then. Tall, blond, English (and yes, Merlin knows he shouldn’t find that quite so appealing, since he technically is as well, but that’s really not the point), an almost complete lack of manners, and apparently incapable of buying his groceries from anywhere other than Avalon.

Not that Merlin is complaining about that last part, really.

X

“You know,” says the irksome, perpetually nameless shop assistant on Arthur's fourth visit there. “You might want to try some fruit sometime. I hear it’s good for you.”

“And you might want to try getting some real chocolate,” Arthur answers, giving the Hershey’s bar in his hands a disdainful look.

No-Name grins, like he thinks Arthur is trying to be funny, and that, _that_ , is why he is so bloody irritating. No matter how crap a day Arthur has had, this bloke has the gall to look cheerful and amused, and, to be totally honest, Arthur really rather misses being in a country where cashiers and shelf-stackers at least have the good manners to look dissatisfied with their lot in life.

X

“What,” says the blond guy, peering into the brown bag Merlin hands him along with his usual daily purchase of cookies and chips, “is that?”

“Apples,” Merlin answers, and he tries to end that reply where it is, he really does. “You know, it explains an awful lot that you don’t recognise them on sight. Is that why all Brits are supposed to have terrible teeth, because I know it’s not genetic.”

“There is _nothing_ wrong with my teeth,” his customer says, just a tad defensive, and Merlin has to wonder why someone who so obviously comes from money and has such a big chip on his shoulder hasn’t just had his crooked teeth fixed. “And, obviously, I know what they are. What I don’t know is why they’re here.”

“They’re a gift,” Merlin tells him, matching the patronising tone as best he can.

“I’m not paying for them.”

“They’re a _gift_ ,” Merlin repeats, this time with extra emphasis. “I wouldn’t ask you to.”

Blondie grunts at him, and Merlin decides to interpret it as gratitude. “You’re welcome,” he says, ringing up the things he actually expects his customer to pay for, and if his hand lingers a little too long when he passes over the change, that’s no one’s business but his and Blondie’s.

“See you tomorrow,” Merlin adds, as Blondie heads for the door, cookies and chips and a bag of apples in hand.

X

Arthur forces himself to keep his phone calls home at a maximum of one a fortnight, and even then, he's still not calling his father. He'll reply to his emails about work, because a refusal to do so means losing his job, but actually speaking to the man requires more self-control than Arthur has.

Morgana, on the other hand, is occasionally capable of human reactions, things like compassion and kindness; Arthur calls her from the office on Friday morning, the day after the apple thing, figuring it’s probably late enough in the day that his sister is home from work, but early enough that she’s yet to go out anywhere.

"This better be quick, Arthur," she says, clearly making an effort to sound exasperated, though since she actually answered his call rather than just leaving the phone ringing until voicemail kicked in, Arthur decides it doesn't matter. "You know I love you, but I have five minutes to finish my coffee before my date gets here."

“He insulted my teeth and gave me apples,” Arthur answers, and it’s almost certainly evidence of the bleakness that is his existence lately that Morgana doesn’t ask what the hell he’s talking about.

“Did you say remember to say thank you?”

“Morgana.”

“You should give him your number, you know.”

“He insulted my teeth,” Arthur says a second time, because his sister knows how touchy he is about them, about the fact that his father thought it would be character building to have him grow up with such a visible, fixable flaw. “He’s almost as annoying as you are.”

“Don’t give him your number, then,” Morgana concedes, and Arthur doesn’t have to hold his breath for very long while he waits for whatever amusing (or so she thinks) remark that he just knows is going to follow it. “It’s not like you’re pining, or anything.”

“I hate you,” Arthur tells her, pretty sure he can hear her answering smile just as much as he’d be able to see it if she were here in person.

“I hate you, too, Arthur,” she says, and Arthur knows she means it just as little as he did. “I have to go now. Aunt Nimueh says to call her when you have a minute.”

“Tell her-” Arthur starts, but his sister is gone before he gets out the words _I’m busy_. She’s not really his aunt, anyway, and the arguments he’s had with his father about Morgana and, more recently, moving here, have already driven enough of a wedge between them. There is nothing his mother’s old friend can say that won’t make things worse.

X

"Kill me," Merlin says, and if he's even later to work than usual, it's not at all because he doesn't want to see Blondie after his ridiculous behaviour yesterday. "Please, Gwaine, kill me now, before he gets here."

"Depends," Gwaine answers, looking like he's trying to make shit-eating grins into a form of art. "What did you do this time, Merls?"

Merlin can't make eye contact, because he knows exactly what Gwaine is going to say and he's just not brave enough to look at him as he does. "I gave him fruit."

" _Him_ being your stalker, right?"

"No!" Merlin answers, then has to elaborate, even though there's a chance Gwaine might actually know what his rather loud _no_ means. "I mean, yes, the blond guy who comes in here loads, but _no_ , he's not stalking me."

Gwaine gives him a tolerant look, or what passes for tolerant where Gwaine is concerned. "Apart from the day he came in here and smacked you in the face with the door, I've never seen him. Also, just in case you've not noticed, eleven at night isn't exactly a normal time for someone to decide he needs cookies, particularly not every night in a row for three weeks."

"He's _not_ stalking me," Merlin repeats. "He probably just works late."

Gwaine laughs, throwing an arm around Merlin's shoulder and hauling him into a headlock that Merlin can't get out of, however much he wriggles. "You're a great guy, Merls," Gwaine says, "but you aren't half stupid, sometimes."

"Says you," Merlin says, slamming an elbow backwards into Gwaine's gut, hitting hard enough that Gwaine lets him go.

"Yeah," Gwaine agrees. "Says me." He jabs a finger at Merlin's chest and grins like the crazy person he almost certainly is. "It's fine, though. You'll agree soon enough."

X

If he's totally honest, Arthur is surprised it takes his sister as long as two months to invite herself to come stay with him.

That in no way means he's happy about it, though.

X

Usually, Merlin's shifts are fairly silent, with the exception of HBA ( _Hot, blond and arrogant_ is too much of a mouthful, Gwaine argued, after the third week of Merlin mentioning him, and, unfortunately, the abbreviated nickname has stuck in Merlin's brain) and his obnoxious questions. Sure, this is NYC, but it's a pretty decent neighbourhood, full of semi-respectable business men who either keep reasonable hours or have the decency to be quiet as they slink home after meeting their mistresses and lying to their wives about working late.

Tonight, though, not so much; Merlin hears the couple approaching from a mile away, no consideration for the fact that it's almost two am.

"Are you sure about this place? It’s a bit...grubby." The guy, apparently something of a gentleman, holds the door, which is how Merlin gets a perfect view of his girlfriend before he sees him. She's gorgeous, this woman, slim and pretty, paler than even Merlin, dark hair hanging most of the way to her butt which, for the record, looks incredible in a pair of skinny jeans, even if a girl’s ass isn't exactly Merlin's thing.

She's gorgeous, and apparently a total bitch, if her initial opinion of his perfectly respectable store is anything to go by.

It's hardly a surprise that the guy who follows her in is Mr HBA himself, and clearly whatever Gwaine said about him being into Merlin is bull, because he's very definitely taken.

X

"Morgana!" Arthur hisses under his breath; certainly, he's had a few things to say about the shop, but he's not been ill-mannered enough to say them like this. "Shut it."

He glances at the clerk from the corner of his eye, but he seems pretty engrossed by whatever massive textbook it is he's reading tonight. Too engrossed to look up, at any rate, and Arthur tells himself he doesn't miss the smile he usually gets from him; it's a good thing, anyway, because his sister never misses a trick and she's already convinced he's completely in love with this guy.

"Really, darling," she answers; exhaustion always exacerbates her fondness for petnames. "Can you just get whatever we're here for and go, already? It's seven in the morning back home and I've yet to see a bed."

Arthur rolls his eyes, but makes his way to the fridges at the back anyway, grabbing the biggest container of milk they've got, then a box of eggs and a loaf of sliced bread; his sister might be a skinny bitch, but she loves her food, and god forbid he not have anything in the house when she wants breakfast.

Sadly, Morgana is not still lurking by the door when he returns with his stack of necessities (and thank god she decided to come with him rather than staying behind to root around in his fridge and cupboards), but instead is leaning against the counter, trying very hard to make eye contact with his - _the -_ shop-assistant.

"Just these," he says brusquely, bumping his sister aside and dropping the milk and the bread on the countertop, only just remembering not to do the same with the eggs.

Shop-guy doesn't look up, instead dragging the highlighter in his hand across one more line of text before hitting what looks an awful lot like random keys on the till. "Eight forty," he says, and Arthur tells himself he doesn't miss the crooked grin and the, _Alright, man?_ that usually greets him here, regardless of the time he chooses to show up at.

Arthur drops a handful of change on the counter, then finds himself waiting for some sort of reaction; that smile, maybe, or a chirpy, cheery, _Come again soon_. There's nothing, though, not even an offer of a bag to put his stuff in, so Arthur just turns, dragging Morgana out of there by the wrist when she hesitates a moment too long.

"You know," she says, when they're about halfway between Avalon and his flat, "I figured you were exaggerating how rude and obnoxious he is."

_I was_ , Arthur thinks, but if his sister thinks he's right and she was wrong, he's not going to give her the satisfaction of knowing otherwise.

X

Morgana loves her brother, and she really wishes she could think that without having to follow it up with a _but_.

It's not like she doesn't have a whole variety to choose from, from the absurd ( _but the way he chews is really, really annoying_ ) to the absurdly serious ( _but he thought that the best way to break it to her that Morgause, the woman she_ thought _was her half-sister, is actually just a money-grabbing bitch with whom she has no blood ties whatsoever was to tell her that they share a father and that he's known this ever since the summer he spent with Nimueh when he was fifteen_ , and no, she's not still sore about that, honestly).

In this case, however…Morgana loves her brother, but she really wishes he'd honoured her visit by deciding to take maybe a couple of hours off work. Not a week, she's familiar enough with Arthur and his father to know that asking that is too much, as is expecting him to take a day, but it'd be nice if she wasn't going alone to see the sights, particularly when her brother has undoubtedly yet to make time for them.

She takes the lift to the top of the Empire State Building and mills around in the cold for a bit, looking at the city, but if she's totally honest, New York just looks like a city from this high up.  Central Park is big and green, not so different from any of the parks in London other than that it's bigger, and even though she sticks to what look like the most travelled footpaths, Morgana expects to come across a dead body any minute. Likewise, the shops are also as supersized as everything else here, and for the first hour or two Morgana is entertained, but there's only so long a girl can try on outfits without a friend to tell her how good she looks in them, or without a potential beau to bully (it's a test, that, and Morgana has yet to find a man who'll put up with her shopping long enough for him to pass it).

Quite frankly, she'd rather be inside with a hot cup of coffee and a slice of cake. Unfortunately, Arthur's cupboards are as bare as the rest of the furnished-but-undecorated penthouse flat Uther got him, and after her morning shopping and carrying her own bags, she doesn't feel like going to look for somewhere selling something other than the instant swill Arthur drinks, even if the closest Starbucks is probably just around the corner.

And then she thinks of the shop Arthur took her to on her first night in the city, the one barely a hundred metres from the door with a reasonable selection and a clerk she's dead certain her brother has a crush on, even if his personality and idea of customer service are both completely shit. It's something to think about, anyway, and maybe if she can convince the shop-boy to remove the stick from his arse long enough to take care of Arthur's far larger one, her brother will deign to leave work early enough that she isn't forced to go to a show on her own.

It's worth a shot, at any rate.

X

Of course, the man she saw her first night in the city – the one her brother most definitely wants to get into bed with - isn't working, which rather complicates things. Instead of Arthur's skinny, cheekboned guy, the man standing behind the counter is older, shorter, and a whole lot more built; in short, much more Morgana's type.

"Hey, beautiful," he calls across to her. "Can I help you with anything, love?"

"Actually," Morgana answers, not bothering to pick up anything on her way to the counter; she's not here to buy anything, and she doesn't see any point in pretending she is. "You can."

The bloke's smile grows at that, and he rests his elbows on the counter, leaning in in a way Morgana doesn't have any problem with mimicking. "So," she says, close enough that she can smell his aftershave (which, for the record, clearly wasn't applied after shaving). "I was here last night, and there was this guy working. Tall, dark hair, thin as a stick, cheekbones sharp enough to slice paper...?"

"Merlin," the bloke – Gwaine, his name badge says, the one the night shift guy never wears – says, half straightening up, and it's not vanity on Morgana's part to think he looks a tad disappointed. "Wouldn't have thought he was your sort. Hate to break it to you, love, but you're definitely not his."

_Promising_ , Morgana thinks, though Gwaine could just mean that Merlin likes blondes, or girls with a bit more padding than she has. "Gay?" she asks, just to clarify.

"Just a bit," Gwaine answers. "Plus, there's a guy he's so gone on he ought to count as being taken, even if he isn't."

"Do tell," Morgana suggests, raising an eyebrow at him and hoping for good news. "He wouldn't happen to be blond, English, utterly insufferable, and prone to shopping just after eleven when security kicks him out of his office, would he?"

Gwaine straightens even further, then takes a step back. "And you'd be the girl who came in with him a couple of nights ago, the one Merlin hasn't stopped whining about since. You should probably lead with the fact that you have a boyfriend, sweetheart."

"If that was true, I might," Morgana tells him. "As it stands, what I have is a cheating git for a father. Arthur's the only half-sibling I know about, but we've not ruled out the possibility of there being more."

"In that case, my shift ends at nine. Let me buy you a drink, and we can talk about your brother and my best bud."

"Deal," Morgana agrees. "See you at nine."

If there's a little something extra to her walk as she heads for the door, no one but she and Gwaine will ever know.

X

Arthur is in a meeting with the head of sales and marketing when his mobile rings. He spares a glance for the screen, then hits the button to ignore the call; it's Morgana, and it's highly unlikely whatever she wants can’t wait.

Sure enough, she doesn't call back, although a text appears a few seconds later.

_Your single, gay shop-boy is called Merlin_ , it reads, because his sister has never been one to mince her words or mind her own business. _I won't be in when you get home. Don't wait up._

X

"You can stop worrying," Gwaine says when Merlin walks into Avalon. "His name is Arthur, and the woman is his sister."

"Thanks," Merlin answers, trying to sound bland. "And you know this how?"

Gwaine grins, patting Merlin's shoulder as he passes him on the way to the door. "I have a date," he says, looking like the cat who got the canary. "Maybe you should ask him for one when he shows up later."

"Maybe you should focus on your own love life instead of mine, Gwaine," Merlin calls after him.

On the inside, though, his thoughts sound quite a lot like _Arthur_.

X

Arthur doesn't think much of the bloke that shoots him, before he pulls out the gun. Sure, he looks a bit dodgy, but it's a convenience store at one in the morning, so _dodgy_ is hardly the sort of feature that makes someone stand out. In fact, at this time, Arthur is probably the one who looks more suspicious; he might not intentionally have been waiting up for Morgana, but he hasn't done much more in the way of getting ready for bed than take his tie off.

So no, he wasn't really paying all that much attention, before the shouting and the shooting. Someone enters the building, but it's a shop so that's sort of what's expected. Arthur glances up, sees the bandana and the arrogant swagger, then figures this isn't the sort of person he particularly wants to get caught staring at (and, really, no one shopping at this time is the sort of person one wants to get caught acknowledging, much less staring at); he lowers his eyes, returning to the deeply difficult matter of deciding between the white Hershey's kisses or the milk chocolate ones, not that anything in this country can hold a candle to a bar of Dairy Milk.

From the corner of his eye, he sees – not watches, because that requires far more attention than Arthur is prepared to give – the man approach the counter but, again, this is hardly out of the ordinary. The cigarettes are kept there, as are the scratch cards, and Arthur's stopped by here enough times in the middle of the night to know that most people out at this hour are after booze, fags or something to squander their meagre earnings on in the hope of winning enough to get out of their shitty lives.

Sure enough, he hears the man order a packet of Marlboro lights, then hears Merlin give a bright, breezy, _What do you mean it's the middle of the night and I'm not supposed to sound this cheerful?_ sort of reply _._ It's nothing, he decides, finally settling on the white ones, then heads to the coolers at the back, trying to decide between a six pack of coke or Bud, and vaguely wondering how the hell his life came to be like this (which, actually, is usually what he wonders about now, what with seeing the gangly shop assistant with the big ears being pretty much the highlight of his day).

And then the bell over the door chimes again, and Merlin's breeziness turns a whole lot less genuine.

X

Since he does actually own and watch a TV sometimes, Merlin isn't new to guns, but he can count on one hand the number of times he's actually seen one in person, and this is definitely the first time one has been pointed at his person.

Still, he's a little ashamed to say that when he turns around with the guy's cigarettes in his hand and the price on the tip of his tongue, he freezes. Yes, he'd defy anyone else suddenly confronted with the muzzle of a gun in their previously safe, gun-free place of employment not to do the same, but that doesn't mean he's going to go around telling everyone that.

"My colleague emptied the cash register before my shift started," he says, quietly, his hands held at about shoulder-height, still trying to sound just as upbeat as he did a moment ago, because he saw Arthur come in some time ago and he wouldn't put it past the moron to do something stupid under the guise of being a hero. "There's only a few dollars here. Really not worth shooting me over, I promise."

"That's sweet," the guy says. "Pretending you don't know why we're here. Very cute."

_Really not pretending,_ Merlin thinks, but since there's a gun trained somewhere in the region of his heart, now is probably not the best time for mouthing off; somewhat irreverently, he thinks of his mother, and how if she knew holding him at gunpoint was an effective way of getting him to shut up, she'd probably have tried it before he turned four. "We?" He asks instead, figuring that to be a tad safer, then winces as his mouth goes and ruins any chance of his getting out of this alive. "You and your invisible friends, is it?"

He braces himself for the shot, not that it'll do any damn good at all.

It never comes, though, and Merlin finds his sass met with laughter as opposed to fury. "Actually," the guy says, waving a hand at the window, "it'd be me and my seven foot tall minion, kid. Sorry, if that's not what you were hoping for."

The man who walks through the door following his words could probably find work as a Hulk stunt double, if his expression didn't suggest that he preferred his violence a little more real than Hollywood was fond of; Merlin, pointless as it is, takes a step back as Hulk approaches the counter, knocking into the cigarette display behind him, sending a rainstorm of boxes to the floor.

"Erm," he says, though his thoughts are tending more towards a stream of profanities imaginative enough that Gwaine would be proud to come out with them; that, and desperately hoping Arthur has the sense to keep his head down, or maybe call the cops while Merlin is keeping the nutjobs with guns distracted. "There really is nothing here worth taking. I can open the register if you want, let you see."

"And get close enough to hit the panic button?" Hulk grunts. "How fucking dumb do you think we are?"

"That hadn't even occurred to me," Merlin confesses, although it really should have done, he thinks; as far as plans go, that one is definitely better than any of the thousand he's come up with and dismissed since the first guy pulled the gun on him.

"Sure it hadn't," Gunpoint drawls. "We've got a message for your father, Merlin," he continues, and that, more than anything else, scares the shit out of Merlin; once again, he's forgotten his name tag, which makes this more than a random holdup. This makes it personal, which pretty much means that Merlin is fucked.

"I'll be glad to pass it on to him," he says, even though he's pretty sure it's the sort of message that ends with him beaten if he's lucky and dead if he's not, and he knows they left England with a dark cloud over their heads, but he had no idea whatever his dad was into was this bad. "I'm sure you'll be way more likely to get what you want if I'm unharmed."

"Cute, kid," Gunpoint says, and if it wasn't a life or death situation Merlin would be pointing out how tired he is of being called those two things. "Unlucky for you, the message sort of means harming you. We've got orders not to do too much damage, but Benjy here doesn't much like orders, and very much likes hurting people, so you might want to do what we tell you to."

_Great,_ Merlin thinks; he's going to be pounded to a bloody pulp by a thug called Benjy, and, really, the name of the guy beating the shit out of him doesn't matter too much, but couldn't he at least have the decency to have a good thug name? Rex, maybe, or Iago, or even Hitty McHitsALot, but Benjy? Benjy belongs to a chubby, blond first-grader, not the bloke about to put Merlin in the hospital.

Benjy the Hulk lifts the counter, gesturing for Merlin to join them on the other side of it and, much as Merlin wants to make a smart-ass remark about being much more comfortable where he is, _thanks,_ he thinks obeying will probably hurt a whole lot less than pissing the bloke off. He takes a step towards them when Gunpoint gestures at him to move with his weapon, hoping against hope that the first blow will be enough to knock him unconscious, because he really doesn't want to be awake for the severe beating that is about to happen to him.

He takes another step forwards, then a third, pausing briefly when he spots movement out of the corner of his eye, in the mirror placed to let him see what’s happening down the back of the shop. His fourth step is quicker, to cover up his momentary pause, because what he saw is Arthur, putting his phone down on a shelf, screen still lit, and advancing slowly on the thugs.

_Please_ , Merlin thinks with a desperation that is truly foreign to him. _Please don’t do anything stupid. Please don’t get me killed._

He can’t resist a second glance up, even though he knows it’s just as dumb as Arthur’s attempt to play the hero. Arthur is still moving, slowly, carefully, as close to silent as any person can move.

It’s not close enough, though; Arthur’s shoe squeaks on the shabby plastic tiles, and Merlin launches into a coughing fit, hoping to cover it up. Too late; Benjy lunges for Merlin, wrapping an oversized arm around his throat and dragging him over the counter rather than through the open gap in it, and before Merlin can start struggling, there is a loud crack, undoubtedly that of gunfire.

Merlin freezes, unable to take his eyes from Arthur as he falls to his knees, blood blooming on his shirt. Arthur’s eyes meet his, holding them, his expression equal parts pain and a brutal, desperate concern, and _please_ , Merlin thinks, his vision starting to fuzz at the edges, _please_.


	2. Chapter 2

When Merlin comes to, the thugs are gone, and he is so terribly afraid that Arthur is, too. Getting to his feet is too difficult when his head is still light, vision less than twenty-twenty, but he can crawl, almost, dragging himself across the floor to where Arthur is, blood still gushing from his shoulder.

That’s a good sign, Merlin tells himself; if there’s still blood flowing, it means Arthur’s heart is still beating, means Arthur isn’t dead yet. He can’t really believe it’s good, though, because if he doesn’t stop the bleeding, Arthur will…he needs to stop it.

He tugs his shirt up over his head, pressing it to Arthur’s shoulder and holding it there, as much pressure as he can manage, hoping desperately that one of the sirens he can hear approaching belongs to an ambulance.

X

Morgana likes to know that when she goes out with a man, she has his undivided attention, which is why she’s pretty damn pissed that Gwaine’s phone keeps ringing.

“Look,” she says the third time it goes off in the space of five minutes, trying not to sound too irate, because other than that everything seems to be going reasonably well. “You have two choices. Either you can answer the fucking thing or you can turn it off, because I have had enough of whoever keeps calling you.”

Gwaine has the good manners to look apologetic, but not enough to choose the correct option.

“Actually,” he says, after a glance at the display, “I should probably get this.”

“I see,” Morgana answers, raising one perfect (even if she does say so herself) eyebrow, and even her very best expression of disdain is not enough to convince Gwaine he’s making a mistake.

“Hey, Hunith,” he says, sounding casual, laid back, not like someone whose date is being interrupted, and certainly not like someone who feels as pissed as she thinks he should; Morgana is very close to standing up and walking out when his tone shifts entirely. “Whoa,” Gwaine says, suddenly a whole lot more tense, holding up a hand like he thinks whoever this Hunith person is can see him. “Take a breath, please; I didn’t catch any of that.”

He listens for a minute, friendly face creasing into a frown, the expression seeming to sit ill on him, then moves his phone away from his mouth. “Call your brother,” he says, so much authority to it that Morgana has her phone out of her bag and Arthur’s number on the display before it occurs to her to wonder why.

The call rings through to voicemail without an answer, and it is with shaking fingers that Morgana tries a second time, then a third, and she stands without question when Gwaine does. He drops a few notes on the table between them then leads her from the diner ( _the food makes it worth it, promise,_ he’d said to her dubious expression, but thanks to his phone call she’s not actually had time to eat more than a mouthful of her meal), both of them still on the phone.

She doesn’t get most of what Gwaine’s saying, too caught up in the general panic she feels, the fear he’s caused her without even letting her know why, the fear that grows with every second Arthur doesn’t answer his phone. She doesn’t catch most of what he says, but she does hear the _goodbye_ , the _I’ll call you as soon as I know more_ he offers to whoever it is he’s speaking to.

“What’s going on?” Morgana demands, as soon as he’s no longer on the phone, her own still ringing and ringing, pressed to her ear.

Gwaine looks at her, and Morgana can’t decide if he looks worse than she feels or better. It depends on the knowing, she thinks; on whether it’s better to know what it is causing you fear or whether it’s bad enough to feel it at all.

“That was Merlin’s mother,” he says, and Morgana has a moment of irreverent humour at the thought of her father (either of them, for that matter, biological or birth certificate) calling one of her friends. It doesn’t last, not when Gwaine continues. “His parents don’t live in the city, and the couple he lives with are on holiday somewhere, and…Merlin’s in the hospital. Something happened at the store, Hunith said he got beaten up fairly badly, and I really need you not to panic when I tell you this but someone got shot. A customer.”

X

Arthur wakes up surrounded by a cool sterility that can only be that of a hospital. He’s not surprised, not when the last things he can remember are the gun pointed at his chest (and if he needed more reason to be against America’s absurdly lax gun legislation, getting shot would definitely do it) and Merlin’s quiet, desperate pleas for him to hold on.

He can count his previous hospital visits on one hand, at least those when he was the patient; he rode in the ambulance with Morgana when she broke her ankle when she was ten, and he spent hours beyond measure in his mum’s hospital room, making an eight-year-old’s bargains with anything that was listening, but he’s not up to listing them. There was the cricket bat accident when he was fourteen, the _Jesus, Arthur, you look like shit day_ when he refused to allow a little cold to keep him from university rowing practice and ended up with pneumonia, and an awkward visit to a clinic when he should have been old enough to know better (but, really, that doesn’t actually count as a hospital trip).

So, he’s not unused to hospitals, and, it turns out, there really isn’t a whole lot of difference between medical facilities in the States and those at home, other than the fact that his being here is likely to be costing his father a fortune (not that he’s complaining about that, really). As it happens, though, being shot is not at all like getting pneumonia after an accidental and unwanted dip in the Cam, nor is it really all that much like taking a cricket bat to the right knee-cap after standing far too close to the batsman.

Getting shot is…painful, really. Yes, so were the pneumonia shudders and the fairly extensive knee-damage (though the law suit his father tried to file probably hurt the school far more), but being shot is in a different league entirely.

On the other hand, he’s still alive, which is somewhat more than he was expecting when he decided to charge the man with the gun.

X

“He’s awake,” says the same nurse who refused to let Merlin and his lost-a-fight-with-a-garbage-truck bruises inside Arthur’s hospital room, even after he’d given the cops his statement. “I’ve called a doctor to check him over, but I think after that there may be a chance of you seeing him.”

Merlin sags with relief, his bones feeling like jelly all of a sudden, but that’s fine. Arthur is awake, Arthur isn’t dead because of Merlin, so it’s fine.

It’s going to be fine.

X

_Pick up,_ Morgana thinks, as Gwaine leads her up the stairs from the subway and through streets that are still crowded at one in the morning, weaving between packs of people. She doesn’t know where she’s going, and as many times as she’s tried Arthur’s mobile and the phone in his flat before they got on the train, she’s not got an answer.

_Goddamn you, Arthur, pick up._

“We’re here,” Gwaine says, piercing through the cloud of her frenzy, the words coming as a surprise to Morgana, her world having narrowed to his hand grasping hers too tightly, his back as she tried to keep up with him in her stupid shoes, her brother’s phone ringing and ringing and ringing. He tows her over to the reception desk and opens his mouth to start talking, but Morgana cuts across him.

“Arthur Pendragon,” she says, still clinging to her phone and desperately hoping the woman on duty is going to give her a blank look. “My brother.”

The receptionist taps at the keyboard before looking up at her, her mouth a sour pucker. “Room 330. He’s with the police at the moment, but you can see him after that. It’s family only, so your friend will have to wait outside.”

“Oh,” Morgana answers. “Oh.”

X

Merlin is still waiting to be let in, has been pacing the corridor outside Arthur’s room for maybe twenty minutes, when he’s hit by what feels like a cannonball.

A cannonball with foul language, Merlin revises, when, “Fuck, Merls,” says the thing wrapped around his stomach, clinging hard enough to leave bruises on top of the bruises he already has. “God, I was so worried.”

“You can let go, Gwaine,” Merlin croaks, “please.”

Gwaine releases him, taking a step back just in time for a second cannonball to barrel to a stop just beside them. “Is Arthur okay?” asks the dark-haired woman he saw with Arthur a few nights ago, Arthur’s sister. “Have you seen him?”

“Not yet,” Merlin tells her, his voice losing almost all volume. “They…there’s a doctor checking him over, but they won’t tell me anything other than that he’s awake.”

“Okay,” she says, a kind of calm that Merlin finds deeply terrifying. “I’ll find out.”

She stalks off towards the nurses’ desk at the end of the hallway, and Merlin would dare anyone to tell her no.

X

There’s some kind of commotion going on outside his hospital room, Arthur realises, and he has no doubt who is causing it, gives it approximately thirty seconds before she gets past any attempts to stop her and storms into his room.

Not even their father has ever been able to stop Morgana, and Arthur doesn’t believe for a second that some nurse is going to be the exception to that rule.

What he doesn’t expect is that Merlin will follow her in, Merlin and the same ragged bloke who’d been in the store the first time Arthur went in.

“Hey,” she says, crossing the room quickly and sinking into the chair at his bedside, encasing his hand in hers; Morgana has never been one for overt displays of affection, and has the good sense to know that now, when he has a hole in his torso, is not a good time to start with the hugs. “How are you, Arthur?”

“I got shot,” he says, eyes skipping first over the man he doesn’t know so well, then on to Merlin. “ _He_ got me shot.”

X

For a second, Merlin feels like apologising, but it’s only a second.

“I got you shot?” he says, leaning more towards _pissed off_ than _apologetic_. “You charged at a man with a gun. How the hell is it my fault you got shot?”

Arthur scoffs, the bastard, and actually looks like he’s about to stand up before the pain stops him. “I probably saved your life, _Mer_ lin,” he says, sounding just as furious as Merlin feels. “Maybe you should think about saying _thank you_ instead of yelling at me.”

Merlin looks at his hands, at the blood still caught under and around his nails, in the creases of his knuckles. The blood still soaking Merlin’s uniform shirt, bundled up and sealed in a bag by the nurse who was kind enough to give him a sweatshirt. More blood than should fit in a single human being.

Arthur’s blood.

“You’re right,” he says, and maybe Arthur is. Maybe Merlin wouldn’t still be here, alive, if Arthur hadn’t made a move when he did, but the paramedics who dragged him off Arthur’s disturbingly still body told him Arthur wouldn’t have made it until the ambulance showed up without Merlin being there. Maybe Arthur’s right about him getting shot because of Merlin, too, because whatever the fuck it was that had men with guns in Avalon, it was something to do with Balinor.

“You’re right, Arthur,” Merlin says. “I’m sorry. You mind if I crash at yours, Gwaine? I don’t really feel like heading home alone.”

Gwaine looks at him, then glances at Arthur’s sister. “Sure thing, Merls,” he answers. “We’ll splurge for a cab, too, long as you call Hunith on the way there. Morgana, you know where to find me.”

“I do,” she says, the kind of cool where Merlin has no idea whether Gwaine’s going to hear from her again or not. “It was nice to meet you, Merlin,” she adds, surprising Merlin by holding out her hand; her handshake is firm, and Merlin is fairly sure her eyes miss nothing. “I’m sorry it wasn’t under better circumstances.”

Merlin smiles, not feeling it at all, and precedes Gwaine out of the room.

X

His family shows up at Gwaine’s on the dot of nine the following morning, early enough that Merlin knows they must have set off pretty much as soon as the sun rose. His mom, so worried that Merlin knows his call last night did absolutely nothing to counter her concerns; Mordred, pale and just as worried, and Merlin wonders just what he said to their parents to get them to let him to skip school; Balinor, his father, strangely calm for someone with a past so terrible it got a man shot.

Or maybe not terrible. Maybe it’s a misunderstanding, misidentification, but somehow, Merlin doesn’t think so.

Merlin allows himself to be the victim of three uncomfortable hugs, hugs that hit every single bruise he has as well as some he wasn’t even sure he’d known about, but that’s it. Three hugs, and now he’s going to find out what the hell this is about. “Gwaine,” he says, while Hunith continues to look deeply frazzled and very close to the kind of fussing over him that will last an age. “Can you get my mom a drink, please? I need to talk to my father.”

Gwaine agrees, affable as ever, and Merlin spares only a second hoping that the kitchen is a little tidier than it was the last time he ended up crashing at Gwaine’s.

“Merlin?” Hunith asks. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s fine, Mom,” Merlin answers, then, when she refuses to move, adds, “Gwaine?”

“Sure thing,” Gwaine says, steering Hunith gently towards the kitchen with a hand on her back. “You too, Mordred.”

“But…”

Merlin looks at his brother, and they’ve not always been on the same side, but Mordred is a long way from the sickly kid who stole all their parents’ attention from the second he was born. He’s older, smarter, and Merlin isn’t the only one who works difficult hours trying to save up enough to put himself through college; if whoever their dad has pissed off can track Merlin down, they can find Mordred, too, and if his brother is aware of the risk, maybe no one else will wind up with a bullet in them.

“You can stay,” Merlin says, earning himself the sort of smile his brother rarely offers anyone, pretty much never offers him.

He waits until Gwaine and his mother are out of earshot before sitting carefully on the lumpy couch, close enough to the edge that Mordred can perch beside him, leaving their father the even less comfortable armchair.

“So I was at work last night,” he starts, a kind of casual anger to it that Merlin didn’t know he was capable of. “Just a normal day, stacked a few shelves, sold a few packs of cigarettes, tried to work up the courage to ask out the cute guy who comes in on a pretty much daily basis, and then this man comes in and pulls a gun on me.”

He pauses, waiting for his father to say something, but he doesn’t. “So,” Merlin continues, and if possible he’s even angrier, “I tell him the register’s empty, and he tells me how cute it is that I’m pretending I don’t know why he and his buddy – who, by the way, is probably bigger than Mark Ruffalo when he’s got his Hulk suit on – are there. Which is weird, right? Like, how would I know why some guy comes into the Avalon with a gun, unless it’s for money? Any ideas, _Dad_?”

Balinor shakes his head, but the look on his face suggests he’s lying, as if Merlin didn’t know that anyway.

“That’s funny,” Merlin says, though it’s decidedly not. “Because, see, the guy with the gun and the Incredible Hulk, they tell me to get out from behind the counter, and then they say _we’ve got a message for your father, Merlin,_ which, quite frankly, scared the fuck out of me.”

“Merlin!” Balinor says, despite the fact that Merlin is very definitely an adult and there’s a hell of a lot more to discuss here than his language.

“Right, _Dad_ ,” he says. “Because me saying _fuck_ is what matters here, right? Not the guys who beat the shit out of me as a message to you, or the fact that the guy I was planning on asking out got _shot._ No, that’s all fine, as long as I’m not swearing about it, right?”

His father is quiet for a long time, while Mordred just gawps at them.

X

“You have to understand,” Balinor says eventually, clearly reluctant to do so. “It was a long time ago, Merlin.” He pauses, apparently waiting for a response, but Merlin isn’t inclined to give him one, not even an instruction or request to continue; speaking seems too forgiving, and Merlin is not that, not yet.

“Your mother and I had only been married a few years when I first borrowed money,” he says. “I wasn’t out of university long, and on top of the mortgage and the loan I took out to fund my PhD, I couldn’t find a bank that would lend me anything for a lab. I’d been relying on an old friend with family connections for a job, but when I went to see him, he’d apparently forgotten all about it. And then your mother told me she was pregnant with you, Merlin, and the problem became a lot more urgent.

“I went to a man I’d heard of in the neighbourhood when I was growing up. Helios, he called himself, and he didn’t have a good reputation, but I was desperate and, for a couple of years, it seemed to be fine. I borrowed from him, enough to purchase and stock a small laboratory, and set to work.”

He laughs a little, without humour, and scrapes a hand through his hair, long and dishevelled. “You won’t know this, boys, but for a few years _Balinor Emrys_ was quite a well-known name in pharmaceuticals. I had a number of papers published in medical research journals, I was on the way to a huge breakthrough, and I thought everything would be okay.

“Then the two-year mark passed, my first payment to Helios was due, and the threats started.”

Merlin freezes, because even if he was held up at gunpoint yesterday, he wasn’t actually expecting that, or the look on his father’s face. It’s Mordred, though, that prompts their father to continue.

“Threats?”

Balinor nods, unsteady. “Threats,” he says, then seems to realise he’s going to have to go into detail. “Helios’ gang’s tag spray painted onto the side of the house. A break-in where nothing was stolen, but I found a note hidden in my sock drawer. I went to Helios, gave him all the money I had, and showed him what I was working on, asking for more time. He agreed, but then when you were four, Merlin, and just starting school, I started receiving pictures of you and your mother in the post. He’d written on the back of them, what he was going to have his men do to you both if I didn’t start paying up. So I paid.”

If this was a movie or book, Merlin suspects there’d probably be some stupid, over-dramatic thing from his father, _God help me, I paid_ , or some shit like that, but it’s not. It’s his life, and apparently Balinor has the kind of debts that get someone shot; yeah, Merlin keeps going back to that fact, but he’s pretty damn sure it merits it.

“I missed a payment on the mortgage,” Balinor continues, sounding bleak. “It was one month, I figured, and I’d make it up once I got the patent for the drug I was working on sorted, once I was able to start making it up and marketing it. I didn’t tell your mother. I should have done, but she didn’t know about Helios, and…well, you know what she’s like when she’s not happy, and she’d have been a long way from happy about that.

“So instead, I pretended everything was fine. I even hired an assistant, not that I could afford it, but I needed the help, particularly when your mother told me she was pregnant again. By the time of her first check-up, I was already three months behind on the mortgage payments; we were receiving letters from the bank, and I didn’t have a choice.

“I thought she’d leave me,” Balinor confesses, and for the first time since Arthur shouted at him in the hospital, Merlin feels something other than anger for his father. “I thought she’d leave, that she’d take you both with her, and that my sons would grow up without a father. I underestimated her, though; I told your mother everything, and all she did was encourage me. She said hiring Nimueh was the right thing to do, even if it made money even tighter, and she…Well, without your mother, I don’t know what would have happened. I kept paying Helios, even though it meant the bank was even more pissed off, and everything was so close to being okay.

“It was the day before I was about to submit the patent paperwork when everything went to hell. I didn’t know it, then, I thought she’d just misplaced everything, thought the breakages were all just accidents, but…Nimueh was stealing my work. She had connections to Uther Pendragon, the friend I’d been reliant upon for the job. Everything I’d worked on for years, everything that was going to save our house and end my arrangement with Helios, she was giving to Pendragon.

“The bank took the house and pretty much everything in it, about two months before you were born, Mordred. Your mother’s salary wasn’t enough to support a family of three, let alone provide everything we’d need for a new baby on top of that, and we couldn’t afford for me to keep up my research, not when I owed so much and neither of us had any family in the area or even in the country who might be able to help out.

“Your mother’s Uncle Gaius took us in, even paid for us to travel over from England, and you know the rest. Your mother and I both took whatever jobs we could find, I sent everything we could spare back to Helios, have done every month since then, but it’s barely enough to pay back the interest, and I guess…Well, I guess he got tired of waiting.”

X

For a long time, Merlin doesn’t know what to say, and it seems Mordred doesn’t either. Gwaine and his mother are still talking in the kitchen, light and breezy, nothing at all like their conversation in the living room.

“I’m sorry,” Balinor says. “Merlin, if I’d known they would track you down like this, if they would have used you to get at me, I would have told you all this. I’m sorry.”

“I know, Dad,” Merlin answers, and a glance at his brother shows that he’s nodding, indicating his agreement, even if he looks as awed by the whole story as Merlin feels. “We know,” he says, and Mordred smiles faintly. “And this man, Helios, I guess he’s sent his message. We can keep paying, and maybe it’ll all be okay now.”

He doesn’t believe it, but his father looks grateful enough to hear it that Merlin decides it doesn’t matter.

X

“Come on, Arthur,” Morgana says, as cool and distant as she’s been since he shouted at Merlin in the hospital, and yes, maybe Arthur regrets it a little, but still. She doesn’t need to be such a bitch about it.

“Sorry,” Arthur answers, though he isn’t and he definitely doesn’t sound it. “Excuse me if I’m not feeling up to running around after you just yet.”

His sister actually looks sympathetic for all of two seconds (a personal record, Arthur suspects), then hurries on into his building, pressing the button to call the lift. By the time he’s paid the cab driver and crossed the entrance of the building – pausing briefly to accept the security guard’s condolences on his accident and trying not to wonder just what Morgana has told the man, his office, or his father – the lift is there, ready to speed them up to his flat.

Even if it doesn’t feel like home yet, Arthur is fairly sure he’ll be a hell of a lot more comfortable here than he was at the hospital.

X

Within a week, Merlin is back at Avalon, and it’s only taken him that long because the manager didn’t want him in there until the visible bruises have gone down some. He’s still staying at Gwaine’s – after spending quite some time arguing his parents into letting him stay in the city – though he insists that he’s well enough to take the couch rather than making Gwaine sleep there again. It’s true, anyway, because Merlin feels fine, aside from the lingering fear that has him reluctant to go home; Helios’ men might know where he works, but at least it’s a public place. His apartment isn’t, and even if the walls are paper thin, it’s not the kind of place where anyone hearing yelling is going to call the police.

Arthur doesn’t come in, neither does his sister (though Gwaine – king of the overshare – lets slip that he’s seeing her, he’s doing it outside of work), and for the first couple of weeks, Merlin is pissed enough at him that he doesn’t care.

After that, though, he’s just hurt.

X

“Right,” Morgana says, for once scooping up the last of her bags herself; she’s already had the building’s security guy carry everything else from Arthur’s flat to the lift, then from the lift to the taxi. “I’m going, Arthur.”

“I know,” Arthur answers; he’s spent the last month trying to get his sister out of his flat and the country, and has been pretty much counting down the seconds between her booking her flight and her needing to head off for the airport.

She sighs, rolling her eyes before pulling him into what has to be the most gentle hug she’s ever given him (so, a bullet wound? Turns out it does have its uses). “Please, brother,” she says, which is enough to make Arthur pay attention; he knows his half-sister loves him, but for all the times he’s claimed her as his family, his blood, he’s never known her to do so in return, at least not with any sincerity. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Of course,” Arthur agrees, too taken in by her acknowledgement of their family connection to think before speaking. “What is it?” he adds, which is far too much of an afterthought.

“First,” Morgana tells him, checking her reflection in the mirror by the door, then adjusting her scarf slightly, and if her words weren’t enough to make Arthur realise agreeing was a mistake, the way she whirls to face him definitely is. “First, you need to start eating properly. I don’t care if that means learning to cook or going to a restaurant after work each evening, but you need to stop with this convenience store crap, even if you do have a major boner for the guy working there.”

“I _don’t_ ,” Arthur insists, even if he sort of does. Still, it’s easy enough to agree to, compared to what he was expecting his sister to say. “I won’t go there anymore, though.”

For some reason, Morgana doesn’t look pleased to hear it, and Arthur expects her next request will explain why. “Second,” she continues, frowning at him. “You need to apologise to Merlin.”

“No,” Arthur says, because feeling guilty about yelling at the bloke in his hospital room in no way means Arthur wants to see him again. “No.”

“I’m not telling you to date him,” she answers, and Arthur can tell she’s trying to sound patient, just as he knows it isn’t going to last long. “I mean, I think you should, or at least you should ask him out, but God knows you’ve never taken my excellent relationship advice before, and chances are you aren’t going to start now. But I talked to your doctor, and to Gwaine. You might have accused Merlin of getting you shot, and the poor guy is pretty convinced he did, Gwaine says, but the doctor tells a different story.”

She pauses, giving Arthur a chance to respond, although what response she wants from him he doesn’t know. “The doctor told me that Merlin saved your life,” she says. “You were unconscious when they got there, and Merlin nearly was as well, but they still had to pry him off you. He wouldn’t take his hands off your wound, and without him keeping pressure on it you’d have bled out before the ambulance managed to get there.”

She stops a second time, and Arthur still doesn’t know what to say to her. This time, though, his sister doesn’t seem to expect him to; she smiles, presses a kiss to his cheek, then heads towards the door, pausing halfway through it. “Think about it, Arthur,” she says. “I’ll call you when my plane lands.”

He’d planned to walk her down to her cab, but by the time Arthur has worked his way through her words and made it into the corridor, the lift is already on its way down.

X

There are a lot of things Arthur hates about his sister, but the fact that she is almost always right certainly comes at the top of the list.

X

“I think,” a familiar voice says, drawing Merlin’s gaze up from his textbook. “I think I owe you an apology.”

It takes Merlin a long time to decide to answer, and when he does, he’s fairly sure Arthur isn’t going to be happy with it. “You do, yes,” he says, as cool as he can manage, almost feeling guilty when Arthur flinches.

“Morgana said you saved my life,” Arthur continues, it apparently escaping his notice that saying he owes Merlin an apology is not the same thing as actually offering one. “I was hoping you’d let me buy you dinner to say thank you.”

“Is that all your life is worth to you?” Merlin asks, his words as much of a barrier between them as the counter he’s resting his elbows on. “Dinner?”

For a long moment, Arthur says nothing. He just stares sort of blindly, hurt, and then nods. “Right,” he says, sounding tired, pained, pressing his right hand to his left shoulder, the same place Merlin’s hands were pressed a month and a bit ago. “I’ll be going, then.”

He makes his way slowly to the door, and Merlin thinks the speed is probably deliberate, giving Merlin time to change his mind, call him back. He’s not going to, though, he’s not, because Arthur still owes him an apology, and Merlin isn’t going to let the prick believe a meal is all it’ll take to make things even between them.

“Wait,” Merlin calls, as Arthur grabs the door handle, rolling his eyes at himself, at the pair of them. Arthur turns back to him, expression as relieved as it is anxious, and Merlin allows himself to smile at him. “Dinner is a start, I suppose. You can meet me here tomorrow at six.”

A free meal is a free meal, after all, and since every spare cent Merlin has is going back home, it’s definitely appreciated. It doesn’t hurt that Arthur is gorgeous, either.

X

Despite the fact that he’s as good as living with Gwaine, Merlin doesn’t actually see all the much of him; his work hours don’t exactly allow for much socialising, and Merlin has classes during the day.

Today, though, Gwaine somehow manages to be home exactly when Merlin doesn’t want him to be and, as is his habit, asking the sort of questions Merlin never knows how to answer.

“Why are you doing this, Merls?” He demands, lounging on the couch as Merlin attempts to make his hair lie flat. “The guy’s a dick.”

“Says the man who spent the best part of a month sleeping with his sister.”

“Since I know what you mean,” Gwaine answers, “I’m going to ignore how wrong that sentence sounds. And, for the record, Morgana agrees with me entirely. Hell, she’s said way worse than that.”

“It’s just dinner,” Merlin says, even as he drags a comb through his hair yet again, which is probably way too much persistence for Gwaine to believe his attempt at being casual about this whole thing. “He wants to say thank you, or maybe sorry, although I’m not sure that one’s actually in his vocabulary, and I want a free meal. That’s all it is.”

“ _Sure_ it is, Merls.”

“It’s not a date.”

“ _Sure_ it isn’t.” Gwaine grins at him, smug and infuriating.

“I hate you,” Merlin says, for once almost managing to sound like he means it. He shoves his wallet in one pocket and Gwaine’s spare key in the other, attempts once more to fix his hair, and leaves.

X

Arthur doesn’t get nervous, ever. Not before business meetings, not before arguing with his father, and certainly not before dates; whatever it is that has him fidgeting outside the Avalon for about twenty minutes before he’s due to meet Merlin, it’s not nerves. It’s just punctuality, politeness, a general sense of gut-wrenching terror.

He is _not_ nervous.

Merlin is pretty much dead on time, but when Arthur’s been waiting so long, on time might as well be the same thing as late.

“Hello,” Arthur says, trying to sound dignified as opposed to desperate, thankfully succeeding in swallowing back the words _I thought you weren’t going to show up_. “How are you?”

“Hungry,” Merlin answers, with a painful abruptness that brings back the twist in Arthur’s stomach that _still_ isn’t anything close to nerves. “Shall we?” he adds, when Arthur fails to do anything more than blink at him.

Arthur forces a smile, and the one Merlin gives him in return looks almost as stiff as his own feels. “It’s this way,” Arthur says, only just preventing himself from offering Merlin an arm; he rather suspects that won’t go down quite so well with him as it did with any of the women his father encouraged him to date in the past. “I’ve booked us a table.”

X

By the time they’ve walked as far as the restaurant Arthur has chosen and are waiting for the hostess, Merlin is sure of three things. First, Arthur is the kind of rich Merlin couldn’t even dream of being; second, this is very definitely a date; and third, Merlin needs to tell Arthur the reason he got shot, before he hears it from Morgana and hates him again.

On the other hand, it doesn’t hurt to get a good meal out of the man before potentially pissing him off…

X

The conversation that carries them through their starter and main course feels rather a lot more like a job interview than it does a first date, Arthur thinks, but it is at least a conversation, and as a result quite a lot more than they’ve managed in the past.

It’s not comfortable, maybe, but by the time the waitress comes to clear their plates and take their dessert orders, Arthur knows quite a lot more about Merlin than he did previously, even given Morgana’s unceasing outpouring of information retrieved from Gwaine over the course of their dates. He knows where Merlin goes to school (Columbia, mostly funded by scholarship) and what he’s studying (physics, with a minor in engineering), his parents’ names, the great uncle his family moved in with when he was five, and all about the seemingly endless feud Merlin has with his brother (Mordred, five years younger, and, according to Merlin, definitely his parents’ favourite). He knows that Merlin’s parents are British, that technically Merlin is as well (even if he was only five when he left and doesn’t remember much of the country of his birth), and that Merlin can see himself moving back there in a few years, when he’s graduated from university.

And then Merlin leans in over his cheesecake, looking a lot more intense than he has the whole meal, and says, “Look, Arthur, I need to tell you something.”

Arthur takes a moment to brace himself for something bad (and to have another spoonful of the excellent chocolate mousse that is his own dessert) before answering. “I’m listening,” he says, and he is, even if he’s not entirely sure he wants to.

Merlin takes a breath that seems just as fortifying as the one Arthur has just drawn, putting his fork down on his plate with a clink that seems impossibly audible. “It’s about what you said in the hospital,” he says slowly. “When you blamed me for you getting shot. You-”

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Arthur interrupts, because now that there’s no longer a particularly painful gaping hole in his body, he can accept that he might have been acting just a tad irrationally then. “It wasn’t fair, and it certainly wasn’t true. I’m sorry, Merlin.”

Merlin shakes his head, and for the first time all meal his smile looks completely genuine, even if it’s very definitely rueful as well. “No, Arthur,” he says, and whatever Arthur was expecting, it wasn’t that, and it’s not what Merlin says next, either. “You were right.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It wasn’t just a random hold-up,” Merlin explains. “It was a message for my father. You _were_ shot because of me.”

X

Whilst there has always been an unspoken rule that when his father calls, Arthur has to answer, the reverse has never been applicable. It’s infuriating, and usually if Arthur wants to speak to his father he just leaves a message, or gives up entirely and sends an email instead, but in this case, it’s not happening. He’s going to speak to his father, and if that means calling constantly from the moment he gets to the office at eight (one in the afternoon at home, Arthur thinks, but the time difference seems to be inexplicably flexible) until the moment Uther finally bothers to pick up the phone, that’s what he’s going to do.

As it happens, it’s barely an hour before Uther seems to tire of his phone ringing incessantly, finally picking up and offering Arthur an oh-so-friendly, “What?” instead of the more traditional _hello_.

“Father,” Arthur answers, taking his phone off speaker mode and holding it to his ear; he might not have had a problem with anyone walking past his office being able to hear the sound of an endlessly ringing phone, but now that he’s got through to his father, he’d quite like the conversation to be a little more private. “Tell me everything you know of a man named Balinor Emrys, please.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever heard of him,” Uther says, hesitating just a tad too long before speaking for Arthur to believe him.

“Strange,” Arthur answers. “His son is quite convinced he knows you.”

“And you believe him, I take it.” Uther’s voice suggests he thinks Arthur an idiot for even considering taking Merlin at his word; hardly anything new, but in this case Arthur is quite certain his father is wrong.

“Since he told me a story involving you before he had any idea of my surname, I do believe him.”

“Sometimes, Arthur,” Uther says, with the tone of someone talking to a child he thinks should know better. “People lie.”

“Sometimes, Father,” Arthur answers, “they do.”

“I’m glad you agree.”

Arthur smiles humourlessly, thinking back to the end of the conversation he had with Merlin, the awkward moment where, when Merlin was done explaining the many sins of the two people Arthur respected most as a child, he had to come clean about who he was. There was no faking the confusion on Merlin’s face when Arthur followed up his _so, you see, it was my fault_ , with _you never learnt my surname when I was in the hospital, did you?_ Merlin’s confusion wasn’t fake, nor was his surprise when Arthur told him that Uther Pendragon is his father and Nimueh his godmother, that Arthur knows well the two people responsible for Balinor losing his livelihood and the Emryses their home, the people responsible for Arthur’s shooting and Merlin’s injuries.

“I don’t agree,” Arthur says. “You know Balinor Emrys, father. You promised him a job, which you later refused to give him, and then you had Aunt Nimueh steal his work.”

“Arthur, don’t be ridiculous,” his father instructs, but the pause before he speaks is even longer this time. “Our family has a lot of money, and people will make up an awful lot of lies to get their hands on it.”

“I’m not stupid, Uther,” Arthur snaps, for the first time in his life calling his father by his first name, for the first time ever sounding like the one in control. “Your dishonesty has already lost you one child. Don’t make it a second.”

His father doesn’t speak, but then Arthur didn’t really expect him to, and silence is probably better than a lie.

“I’m sending you an email,” he says, glancing over the document on his monitor one more time before hitting send. “Print out the attachment, sign it, and send it back before you leave the office tonight, if you ever expect me to have anything to say to you in the future.”

“Arthur,” Uther starts, and he sounds shaken, surprised, and like he actually realises how serious Arthur is. “Arthur, I-”

“Don’t, father,” Arthur interrupts. “Don’t try to explain, because you know I won’t believe you. You ruined a man, and I only happened to find out about it because I’m dating his son. There is no explanation.”

“Arthur.”

“Goodbye, father. I expect your email within an hour or two.”

It is with slightly shaking hands that Arthur puts the phone down, but even so, he feels like he’s won.

X

Merlin doesn’t really expect to hear from Arthur again, not after the wooden awkwardness that was the start of their dinner, the uncomfortable explanations that were the end. He doesn’t expect to hear from him, and it’s probably for the best, given the feud between their fathers. It would never work out, and it’s best that Merlin doesn’t let himself get attached.

The trouble is, it’s too late for that, probably has been since the first time Arthur walked into the store during his shift. Merlin is already attached, but, he decides, after the date that ended with Arthur paying the excessively huge bill and leaving Merlin with little more than a goodbye and a vague smile, Arthur is not.

And then he comes by again.

X

“So,” Arthur says, walking straight over to the counter; he doesn’t need milk, or bread, and he’s not going to pretend to be interested in any of the shitty chocolate the place sells. He’s here to see Merlin, and this time he’s perfectly happy for him to know it. “I don’t actually like apples, all the biscuits on sale here are terrible, and…” He pauses, sliding the brown envelope in his hands across the counter to Merlin, feeling suddenly uncertain about the plan he’d thought was so good only a couple of hours ago. There’s no point in trying to take it back now, though, and it’s the right thing to do, even if he sort of thinks Merlin might not take it the right way. “This is for your father, if you could give it to him, please.”

“What is it?” Merlin asks, looking so dubious that Arthur can’t help letting out a burst of laughter, half nerves and half genuine amusement.

“It’s not sealed,” Arthur answers, looking away; he could have just told Merlin what’s in the envelope, but that feels too immodest, even for him. He doesn’t know how to say it, knew when he set off here that he wouldn’t, which is why the envelope isn’t stuck down, but even so, maintaining eye contact seems a tad too tricky. Instead, Arthur watches his hands, categorises the way Merlin’s fingers bend and flex as he opens the envelope and slides out the contract Arthur spent so long finding the words for. He watches Merlin unfold the sheets of paper, then pick up the cheque that falls out of the middle.

For a long time Merlin is silent, and part of Arthur wants to chance a glance up at his face, wants to know what Merlin’s thinking. Most of him doesn’t, though, because Arthur isn’t entirely sure it’s going to be something good.

“That’s a lot of zeros,” Merlin says eventually and, whilst fairly obvious, it’s certainly true.

“It is,” Arthur agrees, aiming for flat, toneless, and landing quite a lot on the nervous side of the mark.

“My father will never accept this,” Merlin says, something incredibly cold to his voice. He puts the cheque back in the envelope and slides it over to Arthur, a long way from smiling. “I can’t give it to him. If that’s all you’re here for, I suggest you leave.”

Arthur is stunned; with all the thought he put into the wording of the contract he had his father sign, the time he and the finance team spent calculating just how much Balinor Emrys was due, the possibility of Merlin refusing to give it to his father never crossed his mind. He is stunned, completely and utterly, and possibly also a little hurt.

After a moment or two of Arthur staring wordlessly, Merlin seems to soften, his expression more akin to snow than ice. “Look, Arthur,” he says, sounding equal parts patient and patronising. “I understand that you feel guilty for what your father did, and that you want to make things easier for us. I get that, and I’m sure it’s very kind of you, but my father is not some charity case and neither am I. If you want to deal with your guilt by giving money away, don’t go trying to give it to us.”

“No,” Arthur says, not sure if he ought to be offended or not. “It’s not charity, Merlin. It’s from the company’s accounts, not mine, and it’s what he’s owed. It’s...I have the legal team looking at transferring the patent into his name, but this is...It’s all explained properly in the paperwork, but assuming he had sold the initial work to us for a fair price, rather than Nimueh stealing it, and then sixteen years worth of royalties, this is what he would have made from Pendragon. Of course, the company has kept exclusive usage of the formulas he developed, but if your father wants to take it elsewhere once it’s legally his, then that’s his right, and…” He trails off, suddenly aware both of the fact that he is babbling somewhat and that Merlin is looking at him like he’s lost his mind.

“I don’t know much about business,” Merlin says, slowly, and is that a smile? Arthur thinks it is, hopes so much that it’s actually ridiculous. “Like, pretty much nothing at all, but I think you’ve got to be pretty shite at it.”

“Maybe,” Arthur agrees, even though he isn’t; being less than impressive at anything was never an option, growing up, and his father would never have given him so much responsibility if it wasn’t merited, whatever this move might suggest. “I can take being a shit business man, though, as long as I’m an ethical one.”

It’s definitely a smile on Merlin’s face now, intense and so freaking perfect that Arthur can’t help but continue, even if it’s maybe not the time. “On that note, I don’t want you to think this is in any way connected to the massive cheque I just gave your family,” he says, feeling the need to get that part out first. “But I told my father I was dating you – I kind of came out to him, actually – and I’d quite like it if that was true.”

Merlin is still smiling, but it’s gentler now, sweet and surprised, curious. “You came out to your father?”

“Not really the response I was hoping for, Merlin.”

“Sorry,” he says, sounding genuinely apologetic for all of a few seconds. “What did he say?”

“I hung up before he could say anything,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes at himself as he gives in to Merlin’s questions for a moment. “He still co-signed the papers in that envelope, though, so I’m not disowned yet.”

“I’m glad,” Merlin says. “I’d hate if you lost your family because of me.”

Arthur thinks about correcting him, pointing out that his sexual orientation is entirely independent of Merlin’s existence, but even though that’s true, it doesn’t mean he’d ever actually have found the guts to tell his father without there being someone he liked enough to handle being shot. “Somehow,” he says instead, avoiding the matter entirely, “I think Morgana would probably stick around even if our father hated me.”

Merlin sounds dubious when he answers. “I don’t know about that,” he says, close to laughing. “Gwaine has pretty dreadful taste in women. If Morgana follows the pattern…”

Arthur laughs and tries to decide between defending his sister and suggesting Merlin try to warn Gwaine away from her. It turns out there’s no need, though, because Merlin decides the answer to Arthur’s dilemma is to lean across the counter and slot their lips together.

X

As first kisses go, Merlin thinks this one isn’t too bad.

It – _Arthur_ – is a little hesitant at first, but Merlin figures that’s just confusion, perhaps uncertainty, and since Arthur came out to his father because of him, he’s willing to persevere. Eventually, Arthur gets with the program, his hand sliding up to rest on Merlin’s shoulder, his mouth opening against Merlin’s, soft and slow, sweeter than Merlin was anticipating this being.

It’s hardly the most intense kiss Merlin’s ever had, and it’s not like he’s gasping for breath when he and Arthur separate, but it’s definitely good, definitely better than whatever Arthur was going to say next.

“I-” Arthur starts, pausing to lick his lips in a way Merlin finds very much gratifying, before continuing. “Is that a yes to going out with me, then?”

“I could be persuaded,” Merlin says, because it sounds infinitely better than _please kiss me again_.

“I can work with that,” Arthur answers, leaning in, and their first kiss really wasn’t bad, Merlin thinks again, but the second?

The second is definitely better.

X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I have so much gratitude for [texasislandr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/texasislandr/pseuds/texasislandr), who has been patient with my lack of punctuality, wonderful about my plans for her art, and I don't have the adjectives for her, I really don't. It has been an honour to work with you.
> 
> And, yet again, a huge thank you to my betas [daroh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/daroh/pseuds/daroh) and [detochkina](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Detochkina), who not only picked up all the miserable mistakes I missed, but who also told me that my original ending sucked (which I knew) and that I could do better (which I didn't). Without the pair of them, this fic would have had a terrible ending, if I ever finished it at all.


End file.
